


Despoil

by Liviania



Series: Treasure [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Modification, Collars, Consent Issues, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Sexual Slavery, Spoils of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviania/pseuds/Liviania
Summary: "Be my pet," he said.Julian has plans for the prince he captured in the war.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliencupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencupcake/gifts).



> Thanks to Morbane for betaing this story.

The door loomed in front of him, twice as wide as the other doors in the hall and carved five times as elaborately. Although it could not speak, the embellishment said without words that there was something important behind it.

He had to hurry. There was no time to think about how vulnerable they were.

He knocked upon the door in the agreed upon pattern. It opened soundlessly. Before him stood his three younger brothers, a naked sword in each of their hands.

"Put those away," he commanded, straightening his back as if to make up for the franticness in his voice with steel posture.

He looked each of his brothers in the eye, trying to convey the weight of the situation, before he spoke again. "Our father is dead. The rebels have won, and they are riding forth now to sack the palace. We are not going to fight to the death as he wanted."

"We can't do nothing," Finley, his second brother, protested.

"We won't. We must help everyone that we can escape through the tunnels. The aristocrats, the guards, the servants—especially any pretty ones. Their forces have fought with honor, but we can't trust victorious soldiers to act with decorum. When they enter, there must be no one left for them to make an example of, or make sport with."

He paused for a breath, wishing that there was something he could do to ensure the safety of his brothers. They were his charge now, and dearer to him than anything else. But it was up to them to protect their people, and that had to come first. "We leave last."

His youngest brother, too young and yet old enough to be held responsible, stepped forward, his brown eyes wide with fear. "What's going to happen to us, January?"

"I don't know, Tomas," he replied, wishing he had a better answer. Tam had barely passed the threshold into manhood, and now he was facing potential death. "But we're going to do everything we can to ensure that our people survive."

* * *

They were in the bowels of the castle when the enemy soldiers finally came upon them.

Hearing the clatter of the oncoming force, January hissed, "Hurry!" to the final few his brothers had led to the tunnel. They'd escorted so many through the secret tunnels, but he knew there had to be some people left in the castle. Perhaps they would be ignored, left to slip through the cracks if a bigger catch held the attention of the enemy.

He looked at his brothers, debating whether he could even ask it of them.

"We could surrender and cover their retreat," said Tam.

It was strange how Tam's words could break his heart and heal it simultaneously.

The first soldiers entered just as he shut the tunnel door, the tapestry hiding it swaying madly, clearly just moved. He and his brothers arrayed themselves in front of that long ago coronation scene, holding their hands out low and wide to show that they held no weapons.

"Step aside," the soldier's captain ordered, hand on his sword and eyes on that suspiciously swaying tapestry. "We are securing this castle, and will use force if we must."

"Sir, we are prepared to make our surrender," January said.

"Oh?" the captain asked, clearly unimpressed by such a grandiose statement.

"We're the sons of the king."

The soldiers snapped to high alert, and the captain's sword leapt forth, forcing January to lift his chin or be cut on the blade. But he kept his eyes steady on the captain, who eventually nodded.

"Bind them," he commanded one soldier. "Search behind that tapestry," he said to another, to January's dismay.

When all four princes were secure, he took January by the elbow. "I'm taking you directly to the king."

* * *

The king, as they'd apparently already decided to crown their leader, was a broad-shouldered man wearing a helm that made it difficult to see anything but the gleam of his eyes.

From strategy meetings, January knew that his name was Julian.

"King Julian," he said before the soldiers could speak. He bowed as best he could, with his hands tied behind his back and arm held in an unforgiving grip. "My brothers and I surrender to you. Our kingdom is yours. We throw ourselves on your mercy."

He kept his eyes on the floor, but could hear the rustling of his brothers attempting to bow as well. One of them must not have been held as tightly; January could hear the thud as his brother's knees hit the floor and he knelt.

A gauntleted hand titled his chin up, and he tried to stare past the forbidding metal to the eyes hidden within the protection of the helm. "Please," he begged softly, wishing that his brothers weren't witnessing his disgrace. "My brothers are innocents. They're barely more than children, and you have no grievance with them."

An armored thumb stroked his throat, and he wasn't sure if it was a comfort or a threat.

"The crown prince," the king said eventually, his voice more hoarse than January had expected. "Your name is January, is it not? And I believe it was naught but a few seasons ago that a tithe was called in honor of your twenty-fourth summer, despite the shortages caused by the war."

"That is correct," January said, wondering if the king could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. Did he resent those taxes, which had gone to an extravagant feast for the nobles and war machines to take on the rebels?

"You're barely more than a boy yourself," he said, but not with contempt. He turned his head to look at his soldiers. "How did you capture them?"

"They were ushering a group of servants out through a network of tunnels. They gave themselves up to prevent us from following, but we were able to follow and question the last group. Given how few people we've found in the castle, we suspect they were the architects behind the evacuation." The captain saluted nervously, clearly unused to having the full attention of his king.

His attention returned to January. "You might be that man's son, but I have no intention of securing my power by murdering boys who have acted with bravery and honor."

Upon hearing that they were safe, the vital force that had been propelling January fled, and he sagged into the king's touch. "Thank you," he said, but closed his eyes so that he couldn't see the man who had beheaded his father when he said it.

"Secure them in their rooms," the king ordered. "Feed them at each meal. They can stay there until I figure out what to do with them."

When January opened his eyes, the king was still looking at him.

* * *

For more than a month, they'd been imprisoned in their rooms. They were fine rooms, filled with all the comforts anyone could want, but it chafed to be confined. They'd taken to sitting on one of their balconies together, staring at the outside world, though a soldier always watched over them in case one of them decided to leap to their doom.

Thus they were idly betting on a game of cards (using buttons torn from their least favorite pieces of clothing) in the fading light of the setting sun when the king called for January.

They spoke in the privacy of January's bedchamber.

He sat uncomfortably on his rumpled sheets, wishing that he'd neatened his bed instead of giving up on it now that there was no maid to do it for him. If the king wished to sit, there would be nowhere for him to sit but on the bed with January. "I have a sitting room," he said. He supposed it was actually the king's sitting room now. "We might be more comfortable talking there."

"No, this is fine," the king said, moving to stand in front of him. January had to tilt his head up to see his face. "I am sorry I have not visited before now, but there have been many other issues demanding my attention."

It was a nice face, broad and honest with a square jaw that would look impressive minted on a coin. He looked less rough than January had assumed from the brawn of his shoulders and the scars on his hands.

"You've decided what to do with us then," January said, reaching beside him to idly play with his bedcovers and keep his nervous hands busy.

"Yes," said the king. "But you must each agree. Any of you can choose to remain imprisoned instead; however, you will be moved to a more secure location."

He breathed deeply, as if he were the one nervous. "You're a problem for me. All four of you have a legitimate claim to the throne in the eyes of many. As long as you are capable of ruling, you're a potential rallying point. If you have children, they'll be a potential usurper as well. You may promise never to pursue a crown, but for how many generations is your word good?"

"There are men who vow to live celibate lives," January ventured.

"I had considered that. But no, the solution I have settled on after consulting with my best mages is rather more permanent."

He sat beside January on the bed, and started to reach for him, but paused when January tensed, resting his hand on his own leg instead.

"Be my pet," he said.

The words meant nothing at first. Then it occurred to January what the king was asking. "Your mages can transform us into catboys," he said, speaking slowly, buying time between each word.

It made sense. It was a transformation undertaken by those few who found the cost worth it, to make themselves more valuable when they sold their company, or by courtesans with patrons who could afford the cost of transforming and keeping them. There was reward in becoming something precious, but risk in becoming something that society deemed in need of an owner. "You would make us slaves."

"I would make you a cherished pet. You would be mine," the king said. "I would let my most trusted men choose which of your brothers they wanted. You would be treasured, all of you. I would not brook mistreatment. You will be cosseted, as a spoiled prince is accustomed to."

Now the king touched him despite the tension in his body. "But it is no good if I cannot even touch you. I have no desire to take you by force."

January looked away, staring instead at the carvings of leaves on his footboard. They represented growth, a wish for the son of the king to prosper. The sons. He counted them, the leaves and his brothers, in his head as he decided what to say. "I've not—there have been a few youthful indiscretions, but no more than kissing and a helping hand. I think you'd be disappointed in your bargain." He faced the king. "I will be set aside and locked away anyway, even more powerless than I am now."

"I have the experience to know who is worth pursuing. All that can be taught." A heavy hand rested on the back of his neck. "But only if you say yes."

* * *

The mage's apprentice dressed January in a soft blue robe for modesty after she washed him in preparation for the ritual. She'd been quite gentle through the entirety of her ministrations, cleaning him effectively but without lingering touches or glances. January appreciated the dignity she offered him, even as she led him to a table in front of her master. He wished he knew her name, but didn't know how to ask, since she hadn't offered it.

"You lie down here," she said, pointing out where to put his limbs. "Would you like a pillow?"

January nodded. The table was hewn from a strange, cold sort of stone. The pillow she placed under his head and neck was firmer than he liked, but far softer than the table. At least he wasn't required to be uncomfortable for this.

She squeezed his hand. "You'll do fine," she said, "and your brothers after you. The king's mages called my master in because this is his specialty. In fact," she lit up, "do you have any special requests?"

"Requests?" he asked.

"No guarantees, but if you want us to aim for anything in particular—a certain color of fur, for instance."

January started to say no, then hesitated. "Claws." He said it firmly, but then he repeated in a softer voice, "Can I have claws?"

She smiled at him, looking quite pleased with herself. "Claws it is," she said. "We can't go too crazy of course, but I don't know why you shouldn't be able to scratch." She winked at him and bustled off to whatever work it was that was required of her.

Now, January could relax on the slab. He didn't know about the mage, but he trusted himself in the apprentice's hands.

As the mage began chanting the spell, he felt himself drifting off to sleep, a prince and a liability no more.

* * *

The sound of rattling glass woke him, and he opened his eyes to the bleary image of the apprentice cleaning a table becoming clear.

His entire body felt suffused with needles as he moved, and she noticed his grunt of pain.

"Send word to the king," she said to—someone—and then she was by his side, massaging one of his legs.

"Keep moving," she encouraged him. "You've been lying still while your body transformed, but now your body is waking. The feeling will pass more quickly if make yourself move."

He dutifully flexed his fingers, forcing them to bend around the numbness. Then he started to twitch whatever he could and felt his ears move. He froze in surprise.

It felt natural to move them, yet he knew it was unnatural. He hadn't been able to twitch his ears before.

There must have been something in his expression, because she offered him a looking glass.

He'd always had finer features than his brothers, being the one who had taken most after their mother. Now his face looked more delicate, almost fey. The color of his eyes had lightened, more green than hazel, and they seemed strangely reflective. His pupils had become slots in the iris, and the combined effect made his eyes look bigger. The shape of the ears tufting up through his hair did something to his jaw line. He couldn't define it, but it made his whole face look ever so subtly different.

Strangest of all, he liked how he looked. The face staring back at him felt right, but he wanted it to feel wrong. He frowned at his reflection.

"Cinnamon is a rare color," the girl offered, apparently thinking he needed cheering. "There are some red tones in your hair that I didn't notice before; very exotic. And we managed the claws!"

He looked down at his hands and saw that his nails were now each a solid color, curving into little points. Not true weapons, but he could draw blood. He smiled to himself when he flexed his fingers again.

Transfixed by his own body, he still noticed the movement when the apprentice flung herself into an enthusiastic curtsy. He lifted his head to meet the approving gaze of the king.

"It took longer for you to wake than expected, which unfortunately means we must move faster than I had planned. Come along, Jan."

He turned and left, clearly expecting January to follow, now that January was his.

He was, though it was shameful to admit it, correct.

January offered a brief nod of thanks to the apprentice, wishing that he'd had the time to ask her how his brothers were doing. Then he scurried to find his master, intent on catching up so that he could slow to a more dignified pace.

* * *

Their first stop was a smithy. It was not the most comforting destination. It smelled of fire and metal, and the smith's three apprentices were lined up to watch whatever important business had brought the king to them, which made January press into the king for comfort.

"Here, lad," the smith said gruffly, holding out a leather collar. "This will protect your neck."

Hesitantly, January took it and put it on, unsure what his neck needed protection from. After all, the king had decided not to behead him.

Then the smith lifted a golden torc, and January realized he was to be collared. The torc was a beautiful piece of work, at least an inch tall with an intricately cut edge and inscribed with patterns that looked startlingly familiar.

"Yes," the king murmured at his back. "It was made from your old coronet."

And so January bent and let the torc be shaped around his neck, where it would remain unless another smith removed it.

He swayed a little as he stood, his head strangely light despite the new weight on his neck. He caught himself on a nearby stool, and watched as the king inspected the apprentices, thankful that the king drawn their attention away for a moment, whether he meant to or not. The king stopped in front of one who was slightly weedier than the others, clearly grown taller recently, although his arms were still quite muscled given his profession. "This one is about your size. Give him your robe; he'll have more use for it."

All eyes darted toward January. The boys looked nervous, which offered him a strange confidence. They did not want to see him humiliated, nor see the king discipline his pet. So January undid the tie on his robe and stalked toward the unlucky chosen one, letting it slide from his shoulders with his movement. He folded it neatly over one arm, then held it out, focusing on keeping his movements smooth and graceful. He stood with the regal bearing that had been trained into him, although the tail curling round his leg gave away the lie of his posture.

The boy bowed to him as he took the robe, and perhaps it was unwise, but January nodded in acknowledgment of the gesture.

When the king took his arm and escorted him from the smithy, he left with stately poise.

* * *

The king shifted his hold so that he gripped January by the neck, hand resting above the collar, as soon as they had made it past the public entrance and entered the private halls of the palace, where only the king and his servants could enter, allowing the king to move throughout the palace unmolested. It was not a harsh grip, and he even scritched a little, sending little shivers of delight that went all the way down January's spine to his tail.

"You did well when I surprised you with that order," he said. He sighed, sounding burdened. "My first audience as king starts with the next bell. I want you there, presenting the united front of the peaceful transition of power. But we've had no time to get to know each other, since it took longer than expected for you to wake from the ritual."

He stopped, turning so that they could look each other in the eye, as if they were still equals. "Can you follow my orders without question or hesitation? I want you to put on a show for the people. Are you ready to be the pet in public?"

The king's audiences were a chance for people to bring forth their grievances, ideas, suggestions. They were the most direct connection between the king and his public. January had attended many as the crown prince and knew their importance. He knew the man beside him had at least once come to his father with a petition and been turned away.

This audience would show whether the people would accept their new king or not. January would never be king now, but if he were dragged in front of the people fighting and hissing and clawing, salacious rumors would spread. There were those rotten inside who would simply laugh, and those good few who would be outraged he would treat a surrendered opponent so dishonorably. But more would whisper about his weakness, how he'd succumbed to the desires of his flesh and worse, couldn't even control his catboy.

January bowed his head slightly, letting his gaze rest below the king's eyes. "I will obey," he said.

Arms strong from years of brutal sword fights gathered him tightly to the king. He was surprised by the embrace, but did not fight it.

"What a fine prize you are."

The reverent words made January tremble with some foreign need.

Another sigh, but this time the breath gusted across his sensitive ears. "How I wish we had more time. You have such beautiful reserve, and I long to coax you until you open to me and show me what lies within. But rush you I must. I am having a pillow bed made for you to lie at the foot of my throne, but it is not ready yet. For today, you must sit in my lap."

"I understand," replied January, keeping his response short since he wasn't sure how to react to the flurry of sentiment. He at least understood the king's political intent. It would be a disaster if he were stiff and fearful, a scared prisoner paraded forth to intimidate the populace.

Thus, when they entered the throne room and arranged themselves before no one but the servants, January melted into the king.

Then the doors opened, and all could see January draped over the king like the exotic trophy he'd become.

Immediately January was glad of the solid body against his. A few groups of nobles stood at the front, all men and women he'd known his entire life. His first duel had been against Wick.

The king's arm curled around him, hand resting on his ribs. When January took a deep breath, the king rubbed his flank in soothing circles.

January couldn't not listen. The issues brought up were important. There was infrastructure that needed to be rebuilt quickly, bridges necessary to the flow of goods across the country, fields that had been stripped, districts were many homes and business had burned. And there were a great many people who had a stake in how those problems were addressed.

But it was also easy to become distracted here and there as the king's touches became less soothing and more teasing, light fingertips trailing at random across his bare skin. He'd never thought of himself as particularly sensitive, but under the eyes of the curious crowd he could sense every inch of his revealed skin in perfect detail.

He'd buried his face in the king's neck to ignore those eyes, but since he felt them anyway, he decided to look back.

More than he expected weren't looking at him at all. They were concerned with studying the king or the supplicants, or simply distracted with sorting papers or corralling their group. But the majority looked, even if only through guilty, darting glances.

Some stared with open avarice and lust. Including a man with the current group addressing the king, who earned himself an elbow to the ribs from the man beside him when it was his turn to present some calculations about grain yields. He'd been too busy staring at the king's hand tracing the curve of January's hip to listen for his cue.

And now he was lying, because while January did not know the numbers by heart, he knew the man was underreporting the yields prior to the war. He'd have to tell the king once they were in private.

He and all those with the greedy gazes coveted what now belonged the king. He'd experienced nothing but a few sweet, furtive fumblings with those bold enough to approach their prince, and now he knew that all he'd had to do was take his clothes off to make venerable men stumble over themselves with want.

He did not know all the options the king had explored, but this was what he'd chosen. He'd probably leapt on a solution that not only neutralized the thread but let him have control of January. Julian had probably desired January from the instant he'd laid his hand on his throat, long before January took his clothes off. He'd been unsure of it at first, but he'd known it in his bones by the time Julian begged him to become his concubine.

January twisted his hips slightly to preserve the modesty of his erection.

This, of course, pressed his hardness into Julian's belly, not that the king would have missed it otherwise. Soon that wandering hand was teasing January's length, idle strokes intended more to ensure his arousal did not go down than to encourage him to greater excitement.

He squirmed beneath that teasing hand, both in pleasure and in pursuit of a harder touch. His movement drew attention, and he found himself breathing harder beneath the watchful eyes of the crowd. He would not make a noise and interrupt the petitions, not when so many sacrificed their time and money to be heard, but he begged shamelessly with his body. He stroked his cheek along the prickly brocade of the king's coat, and thrust his eager erection into that patient hand.

Finally the king took pity on him when one petition finished and another group moved into place. In the end, it took no more than a finger trailing along the underside of his cock to make January spill.

With an idle wave, a servant deposited a cloth in the king's lap to clean the spill.

January felt more self-conscious now that his arousal was ebbing, and thought perhaps the king had done him a favor by keeping him on edge for so long. He turned his face back away from the crowd, and noticed that the cloth had been no use in removing his seed from the king's clothing.

He had arched his back with the force of his release, and the spill trailed surprisingly high on the king's chest. He could, in fact, reach the upper edge without bending too much. So he applied himself to the task of licking up his mess, smirking to himself when he felt the shock ripple through the king's body.

The velvet was rough under his tongue, so he didn't clean much, but it was soothing to set himself to the task of being useful.

Languorous and satisfied, he found himself curling up entirely in Julian's lap. Those soft touches returned, and he found himself falling asleep to the soothing sound of his own purring.

This was peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Aliencupcake, I hope you enjoyed the gift even if it isn't really anonymous. I had fun writing for you again!


End file.
